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A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
That is one of my favorite tunes. Lately I’ve listened to a violin cover of it. Wonderful poem. |
Reserve this when dry eyes need to eek out a tear only one eye can fully produce knowing some have saved me, if just from myself and a metaphorical blade leaned into close Without, I'm within in some other world asea when storms rage outside my asymmetry. I was balanced by them, buoyed and came right back straight for that honed steel, because it's been the only thing to motivate me...that or... Along the way, experience, words working forth and back, some splashing up on me, liquifying dry heart, soul, brain seeking some sort of refrain, melody that could put it right but then eyes always turn back toward the tempest night I've stood above an abyss to scream and find no echo, nothing of me but tormented myself, like returning nightmare, perpetually. I'm not a crossmaker or a heartbreaker but a soul silent split right down the middle the metaphor repeatedly goes, dissection and day after day, night after night, no life, no resurrection My only value is what I gave to another and they rob my security in anonymity, mocked, shunned and cast aside a cleaved man How could I hate or resent but feel the same pain over again and decide that this is what I'm made for, facing your edge Be forewarned, there's no blood left in me to drain and no sport, you'll see. [Visit the entry for more...] |
And making a note or setting an alarm wouldn’t work. I hate the imposition of schedule, for some reason. In fact, I’m doing ten less important different things than what I put off. I’ve learned not to be hard on myself. I now adequately defend my condition (that I’m working on still in therapy and with constant self-analysis with google). You’re Angel of the Morning now. |
I identify. I'm awake at 1:30AM doing something that could just as easily be done tomorrow or next week. But I'm so flighty I'm afraid I'll forget. |
Added, ‘What’s the line limit, Kenneth? Rather, 53.’ For actuarial Porpoises, and adding that, too. |
My farts are just as good. |
I love it so much! Thank you for sharing it! It's genius. |
Tens of Tens for a special Tenth Count those piggies on your feet that glisten. (That’s 1) All digits lent to hands lift from the pool, now listen. (Up to 2) Been a decade since your first October, I frighten. (Add 2 more) Hamiltons from your aunts in cards does enlighten. (Now, it’s 5) In my day, a dime thrilled, even if ill-gotten. (Six!) I bought orange push-ups as my teeth did rotten. This joyous day at the alley we hope pins flatten, (snuck in 7) and you bowl the first strike in those green and red patten. (And, 8…) Sign overhead flashes red like a Roman numeral ten. (Bam, 10!!) What? You think I’d leave the tenth line, unwritten? (Add 1 for good measure), don’t expect I’ll do this again…until you are 11. 4.10.23 |
Week 39 PPC ▼ ...Haunting Age, Time Running Out The first thoughts: I should face the hall mirror, accept my lot -- wasted. (Whenever passion produces feelings like desired, young love) I desire to reveal, hidden in this failing structure, words flowing from bloody tongue. Indelible words scribed on Sanskrit instead of glowing, pixelated hostages illuminating ignorantly, but that inky river runs dry. Dim light glows on the edge of fading vanity, won't lie (anymore) to caverned eyes scanning and perceiving disinterest, the unwanted, disheveled, unrepairable, long face. Running it back: There's this feeling I should face the reflection, accept what was wasted. (Whenever I have passionate feelings akin to taking a young lover) I yearn reveal in structured, flowing words love for something...but purged to an ocean of dreamlike memory. Dim glow douses dull eyes above the vanity, won't hide a monster bloodied by sins against consortium. In a cavern scanned, perceiving the unrepairable, long jaw. Revisit one more time: Dated. Living with flames of my past, in gut stove, hotter burning. Most intense, molecules mollify. In thinning air, disconnect, evaporate, surround a house soon cinder, (when it should ignite from their kerosene and torches). I'm not a floating lantern. Words echo memories as little fireflies linger to absorb my essence, before the grave, shallow space. The last image appeared in a dust mirror to haunt daily after I last awoke. Guess, I'll rise, clutch the sharpened graphite. Brave the jut chin. 4.10.23 what if this is all I ever achieve because of time wasted, because time is running out? I didn't leave it all out on the field. Didn't make it past my door, because there are protesters outside I can't face, hate I don't understand. I need love to try...and a time machine. Round 39 Prompt - “time running out” "Invalid Post" Week 40 PPC ▼ Shadows In Thinning Space Need a higher SPF for this bullsh*t Low giants chased each other across the sky, brief shadow a bright intersection. At intervals, glow full a face inside its glass cage. Earlier, bouncing men in drab, strange trucks, embarked a journey into my cul-de-sac. Gritty, be-goggled intent, with angry, oiled metal gear, sparks a discordant organ, bleeding again. The yellow hats’ ripcords ignite impulses out of my control. An aggressive symphony a-hum, a-stir, thins spaces between me, neighbors and that insistent interstate, nearing. If I close the window, I’ll still hear leafy goodbyes — crescendos of severed limbs echo discontent, a muted, buzzing chorus of pertain visions, villains vainly insist in this neighborhood. The loudest, bass instrument grinds in its pit, heard inside these blinded confines — no chord progression to inevitable finish. Blind to man’s brutal persistence permeating a coffee-scented space, this incipient void hides in ever atom of universal, cosmic existence. Pale hours deluge a raucous vacuum, container, hopeless. I'll not leave in one piece, if ever I breathe again green life. I need shadows just as much as the light. Let’s not kill what is necessary for convenience. 4.10.23 29 lines, free verse Round 40 Prompt - shadow(s) "Invalid Post" I know everything and nothing about physics. It's because I'm becoming one with emptiness and a dehumanizing world I rebel against hard. Keep a cool demeanor, when they come into my neighborhood to tear it down. Week 41 PPC ▼ Wild Kitty, Poet Documentarian (Tigerjade in Three Parts) Love is strange. It's kind of a masked Tigris -- mew little kitty, purr feline. In meadow alone I've followed, sought a heart sublime. It roared. Not a fur pet; animals need no master. My gentle words, a given hand, soothe like jasper. Jade eyes spy how blue eyes. Words are bond, seek the fond of leathery monsters hiding amid fauna. Feasting felines crave the weak, need flesh-blood trauma. Once warm and velvet, I crouch to eye the carcass. Freely she slathers, samples my sweat saltiness. We could hunt. You just grunt. Blood-red face in this space, indifferent, stealth she saunters as scaremonger. Soul death, I'm delivered resilient, stronger. Ready sacrifice, passion true discovery, I master quiet afterlife, find recovery. It won't stop; mask won't drop. 4.25.23 Tigerjade Form Thoughts: stunted form, difficult to smooth flow with tight, punchy rhymed open to the long, drawn out lines betwixt. Great for a children's poem: cow said moo, in it's poo...? Experimenting with some forms make you a better writer, some get your head stuck in a mental tube. Brain paste now fully squeezed out. This poem was forced into unsatisfactory outcome in eight lines, then 16. At 24, decided not to double back, but end it. Outcome blunt, obtuse, cryptic, etc. Requirements: 8 lines/Syllables: 3-3-12-12-12-12-3-3 Rhyme Scheme: aabbccdd "Invalid Post" Week 42 PPC ▼ The Dying Season Skin devouring journey to afterlife, melds porous color from flesh leeched amid ample, dew-damped, green skewers. Wisps of current spin, thrust the fallen corpses that cartwheel, curl, tuck, twirl, tailspin; mock me as they ball, bounce, trampoline and vault hedges. Sere skeletons wither alone like the forgotten words hurled at a fence, remand in an obsolete, shadowed corner next to me. Unless unlucky as a decaying spine, some pass through pricked and padded experience. Brown, veiny husks crack, crumple, sag and slide down the old woman's white trellis. Radiating her absorbent, vinyl warmth, resilient, I blindly now cling to her arms in final, tranquil hours this dying season. 4.24.23 Prompt word: Tranquil It's good to die after declared dead and still know you cling to something that makes you alive...watch death, feel death, and feel what immortality could mean. "Invalid Post" |
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